


I Got The Night On My Side

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Breakfast, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian’s smile’s shy, sweet, hopeful as sunshine. He’s wearing his own boxers and Chris’s dress shirt, unbuttoned. He’s barefoot and his hair’s rumpled in late-morning light. He’s holding a spatula.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got The Night On My Side

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [I Got The Night On My Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107674) by [joankindom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joankindom/pseuds/joankindom)



> So...this is not the next Like Sugar story (sorry!) but that interview, man, I couldn't resist. I should really be grading finals, but I haven't had any writing time for like two weeks, and I needed to get SOMETHING done and published; I was feeling fretful.
> 
> Inspired by [that recent Buzzfeed article in which Sebastian sings and talks about breakfast food](http://www.buzzfeed.com/alannabennett/sea-basstian), and also [these pictures](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/126102326594).
> 
> Title courtesy of Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead Or Alive,” of course.

“Morning.” Sebastian’s smile’s shy, sweet, hopeful as sunshine. He’s wearing his own boxers and Chris’s dress shirt, unbuttoned. He’s barefoot and his hair’s rumpled in late-morning light. He’s holding a spatula.

Chris gazes at him, forgets words. Feels thickheaded and clumsy and inadequate: sleep-fuzzy, baffled, bleary-eyed with the aftermath of the night before. Awakening, he’d needed a minute to recall why he’d been naked, what he’d done last night, and oh God who; and his heart had performed an odd unhappy quiver at the realization that Sebastian’d gotten out of bed and left without saying goodbye.

Sebastian hasn’t left. Sebastian’s standing in Chris’s kitchen surrounded by the scents of eggs and bell pepper and toast. Tentative excitement’s starting to fade from pale blue eyes. Chris hasn’t answered.

Marshaling foggy hung-over syllables, he tries, “Um.” He’s seen those blue eyes at six am call times, on set. He knows how much of a morning person Sebastian isn’t. “You…”

“I didn’t know how you liked eggs.” Sebastian looks back at the spatula. Then at the countertops of Chris’s Los Angeles home, where small armies of breakfast food colonize all available space: scrambled, sunny-side-up, perched on toast, some fascinating tower of open-faced avocado-and-bell-pepper English-muffin sandwich that’s undoubtedly the most gourmet dish to ever grace this kitchen…

Chris swallows. Strange sticky ball of emotion in his throat. The hangover’s not terrible, he’s had worse, but he feels like he needs to shower, feels too large and awkward and anxious, not knowing what to say, where to put his hands. He shuffles his feet, too aware he’s only wearing hastily-grabbed ancient sweatpants. A hole in the left knee. Grey.

Sebastian came home with him last night. After the Academy Awards. After Chris’s nomination as director—not a win, but he’d been truly honored just to be there, he genuinely had—and Sebastian’s presence as supporting cast for that Meryl Streep vehicle, which _had_ won. Sebastian had smiled at him across a room full of shark-fin reporters, and had run over to find him when Chris had been seriously contemplating huddling in a men’s room away from the throng. Had stayed shoulder to shoulder with him when they’d ducked into an empty hallway, and also later at the obligatory afterparty: making him laugh, making him smile, keeping him sane.

And Chris had brought him home, both of them tipsy with free-flowing alcohol; Chris had offered his house as an alternative to Sebastian’s far-off hotel room, and Sebastian had taken keys out of Chris’s sloppy fingers and put one into the front door and looked up, hair long enough now to fall into his face, eyes amused and merry under streetlight gleam.

And Chris had leaned forward and kissed him there on the front steps, hands coming up to tangle in soft dark hair.

His head pounds. His heart throbs. They’d both wanted to—he thinks they did, from what he can remember of the night. Mutual. Consensual. Sebastian above him, moving in ripples of muscle, riding him as Chris’s cock plunged upward into that glorious body. Sebastian laughing exultantly, bending down to kiss him, hair brushing Chris’s nose. Sebastian’s mouth, hot and wet and skilled, tongue drawing yet another orgasm out of Chris’s tight-drawn balls and gut and soul. Sebastian on his back, infinite legs wrapped around Chris’s waist, gazing up with shining eyes as Chris thrust deeper. Sebastian curled up along his side, catlike and worn out, sleeping naked but for the marks of claiming caresses scattered over hips, ass, thighs.

Sebastian had wanted to, hadn’t he? That hadn’t been—couldn’t’ve been—Sebastian said yes, kissed him back, wanted him. He wouldn’t have—

Sebastian’s the sweetest kindest most generous person Chris knows. Sebastian notices fans’ scars, certain types of scars, and promises those fans with heartfelt grave sincerity that things’ll get better. Sebastian hugs convention-goers when he’s not supposed to and sits with Chris when Chris needs silence and remembers how door-locks work when Chris can’t. Sebastian _would_ be kind and generous and sweet. To a friend.

Sebastian woke up first, when Sebastian famously never wakes up first, and is making breakfast. In Chris’s house.

“I’m…” Sebastian waves the spatula. Helplessly. Because Chris still hasn’t managed to goddamn speak up. “Sorry. I just. I used to. Cook. I’m not bad with breakfast. I made the sort of little sandwiches with avocado, and then I wasn’t sure if you liked avocado or red pepper, and then I just did scrambled but I thought that might be boring, so—well. I used up most of your eggs. Sorry.” He’s avoiding Chris’s eyes.

He’d been singing under his breath, hushed and cheerful, when Chris had first stumbled in. He’s not singing now.

“I…didn’t know I had, uh, avocados.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. God. Get it _together_ , Chris. Screaming internally at his brain.

“One. But…not anymore.” Sebastian hesitates. “I can replace it. And the eggs. Of course.”

“Seb—”

“I’ll clean up,” Sebastian says, regarding the last omelette in the pan with a look of mild surprise, like he’d forgotten about its existence. He slides it onto a plate to join two others, and turns away, and sets the pan and spatula down; and it’s only then that Chris realizes Sebastian achieved all this motion without brushing up against him.

Not that big a kitchen. Feels cavernous and empty, abruptly so.

“How’d you know where I keep…things? Stuff. Pans.”

“I’ve been here before.” Sebastian turns on the faucet, over the sink. “When you first bought the place, and your brother invited everyone you knew for the housewarming party. Anyway it was all mostly logical.”

Sebastian has been at this house before. Chris remembers. Chris is suddenly one hundred percent certain that _Sebastian_ doesn’t believe Chris remembers. “Unless there’s a _lot_ I don’t remember about that night,” he points out, “you didn’t cook anything.”

“Both true,” Sebastian says, “given that many tequila shots.” A single sunbeam flings itself through the window. It paints his hair, his eyebrow, his eyelashes, gold. He’s leaning against Chris’s counter, pausing to fix one rolled-up sleeve of his borrowed dress shirt, still barefoot, boxers sitting lazily low over hips. His eyes are quiet heartbreaking blue: wistful, wry, fond, brave above some more private emotion. His hair’s got a single strand curling up near his left ear. The kitchen smells of breakfast food, the floor’s wooden and sun-warmed under Chris’s toes, and Chris’s hands ache with the memory of the shape of him.

Standing in his kitchen, Chris feels it: the moment when the world shifts and comes into sharper focus. Sebastian’s his friend, yeah. Sebastian was apparently his post-Academy-Awards one-night stand, yeah and also oh God, oh no, oh God. But that’s not it.

He’s in love with Sebastian Stan.

Of course he is. It’s not even a revelation, really. More like he’s always known: the way he just feels better with Sebastian at his side. The trenches of moviemaking that get less treacherous and grueling at the sight of that wide smile. The way the air changes, lightens, brightens up when blue eyes’re around.

The way that this, Sebastian wearing his shirt and taking over his kitchen, is exactly how the universe ought to be, forever and ever, always.

“It’s your shirt,” Sebastian says to the dishes—he’s doing Chris’s dishes now, carefully lavishing a bit too much attention on each fork while reading Chris’s mind—“because I couldn’t find mine. And I—” He stops. Scrubs a plate.

“You what?”

“I’ll get it cleaned if you want.”

Chris reaches over and turns off the water. Sebastian pauses, soap-suds decorating pianist’s fingers.

“Please,” Chris says. “Please talk to me. Did I hurt you, did I—are you okay, God, tell me, what did I do, what did I do to you, what can I do, how can I fucking help, _please_.”

“Oh…oh, no. Chris, no.” Sebastian turns to face him. One corner of his mouth quirks up: rueful and affectionate. He meets Chris’s gaze honestly, deliberately reassuringly so; Chris’s heart hurts some more, in previously unknown ways. “I’m fine. I’m wonderful. You were—last night was—absolutely incredible—”

“You,” Chris says. “You…wanted to, right?”

“Of course I did!” Sebastian makes a half-annoyed but understanding face at him. “Did you think I didn’t? I would have said no. Or kicked you in the balls. Anyway you asked. More than once. And I said yes. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do, and I don’t expect anything to change, you don’t have to worry, I won’t get in your way—”

“Why the shirt?”

“What? Oh. I…was cold.”

Chris ventures a step closer to him. Lifts a hand, touches the shirt in question, eases unbuttoned fabric down a fraction. The bruise over Sebastian’s collarbone smirks up baldly: vivid imprint of a man’s mouth. Sebastian’s nipples are visibly tender too. Chris has a flash of sense-memory, brilliant and dizzying: himself sucking, teasing, biting down, discovering how sensitive those tiny dark buds are.

Sebastian holds willingly still for the inspection. “I liked it. I _like_ it. Seriously I was just cold.”

“Sorry,” Chris murmurs, “I kinda keep it cold in here…” and knows he’s apologizing for more, even if Sebastian doesn’t think he needs to. “You were singing. When I got up.”

“Bon Jovi…if you don’t feel like eggs I also made toast…you can touch me.”

“Can I? ‘Wanted Dead Or Alive,’ yeah?”

“It was, and yes.” Sebastian’s breath catches as Chris’s fingers graze bare skin, the edges of bruises, the scraped-up elegant column of his throat. “I was happy.”

“Past tense?”

Sebastian shivers a little. Chris mentally swears at himself, and wraps arms around him. “Come here. Tell me if you want the heat on, ’kay?”’

“It’s not that.” Sebastian puts his head on Chris’s shoulder. “I’m only laughing at myself. Being ridiculous. Don’t worry about me, please.”

Chris leans back enough to level a glare at him. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I love you, I love you, and one more time, I love you.

He knows it’s true. He knows he does. Like bedrock, in the sunshine, in his kitchen. Like the feel of Sebastian Stan fitting into his arms.

“Sometimes I sleep,” Sebastian half-sings, quoting, admitting, “sometimes it’s not for days…”

Chris knows the next line of that damn song equally well. “You think I don’t want you? That I, what is it, that we’re gonna go our separate ways?”

“Which is fine, of course that’s fine, I said I didn’t expect—”

Chris stretches an arm over to the counter, snags one of the avocado-egg-pepper sandwich-fantasia creations, and bites it in half.

Sebastian stares at him.

Chris chews, swallows, says around the bite, “Oh my God this is fuckin’ amazing, you’re amazing,” and finishes it off and swallows again and licks his lips to collect hot sauce, which is probably among the least sexy ways to woo the man he loves, but: _so_ good. “Seriously. Amazing. You’re like secretly a goddamn Iron Chef or something, how did you even do this, I mean, in _my_ kitchen.”

Sebastian actually blushes. Continues to stare. Specifically: to stare at Chris’s mouth. “Those aren’t that hard.”

“Yeah, if you’re a wizard.” Chris’s heart kind of wants to all at once kick heels up and hope, given the staring.

“I felt like cooking.”

“You cook when you’re happy,” Chris guesses, and Sebastian does a small shrug-smile-head-tilt in reply. “Yes.”

“You were happy this morning.” He picks up a second miraculous egg sandwich. Sebastian smiles more when he does, so he eats it. Avocados and eggs and peppers and hot sauce are wondrous. Who knew? “Did you have any?”

“…no?”

“You like avocado,” Chris says, and picks up a third sandwich and holds it out to him. “Skip to the line about playing for keeps.”

Sebastian looks at egg and cheese and avocado and English muffin, offered to him in Chris’s fingers. Sebastian’s eyes get warmer and happier all over again, like the gesture’s put that emotion there. Sebastian says, “I love you.”

And promptly looks utterly aghast, blinking through sudden sunlight. Even his toes’re shocked at his unthinking confession, poised against honey-oak floorboards.

“I love you,” Chris says right back.

Sebastian’s mouth literally falls open. This is not entirely a flattering response, but Chris keeps going regardless, because he has to, because Sebastian’s said it, because if there’s even a chance then he _is_ all in and playing for keeps.

“I’m kinda awful with the, y’know, words. Vocabulary. I woke up and you weren’t there and I sort of couldn’t think for a while and I love you. I never knew I even liked avocado. And I love you.”

Sebastian whispers something in Romanian. Astonished-sounding, radiating disbelief even in a language Chris doesn’t know. His eyes’re huge.

“I don’t mean I hated avocado,” Chris says, “it was just sort of there, I think Scott bought that one. I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m a mess, I’m sorry, I’m fucking this completely up I think, I’m so sorry.” And he stands very still in his kitchen, wearing his ancient sweatpants, wanting to go on, not knowing how.

“You’re right,” Sebastian says. Slowly.

“I know, I know. God. I’m a moron. I—” He scrubs hands over his face. “I’ll go back to bed and leave you alone forever, okay?”

“No. About me. I cook when I’m happy.” Sebastian bites his lip, lets it go. Takes a step in: so close Chris can see the shimmers of individual color in his eyes, grey and green and aquamarine dancing through winter-blue. “I…could…make dinner. Later. Tonight. If you want.”

“Oh,” Chris breathes, Chris comprehends. “Yeah. Yes. _Yes_.”

“One more line,” Sebastian says. “The one about…I’d drive all night, just to get back—”

“Home,” Chris says. Leaning in, leaning into him.

“Home,” Sebastian finishes, and kisses him.

This kiss tastes like hot sauce and pepper and cheese; Sebastian, despite not having properly eaten yet, must’ve been doing taste-tests. Sebastian’s shoulders’re firm under the navy-blue silken slide of Chris’s shirt, under Chris’s palms. Sebastian’s hands find Chris’s waist, and Sebastian smiles into the kiss. Chris ends up laughing for no reason at all, lucky and amazed and overwhelmed; Sebastian sings a line about steel horses and riding and sneaks a hand into Chris’s sweatpants on the word, laughing along.

Chris folds arms around him, holds him close, heartbeat to heartbeat, heads tipped together, shared breaths fast and full of joy. And he thinks about coming home, about finding home. About breakfast on sun-drenched mornings and the heat of Sebastian’s skin. About dinner later that night, and beginnings.


End file.
